Mortals all
Blind we fade
The prophecy
Not clear in the cup
And after is
Is after all
Knowing naught
Of what we're made;
Then bourgois Maiden
Of wifely cares
Come weave me in
Your routine days,
Clean my brain
As you sweep the stairs,
And lull me with
Your beehive ways;
Do not let my
Heart choke up
Over what I'll never know
Nor really
Ever
Need
To know
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